


Bring It Back, Come Rewind

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Actors, Banter, Community: tavern_tales, Evolving Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Growing Up, M/M, POV Bisexual Character, Porn with Feelings, Role Reversal, Second Chances, Secret Relationship, Toronto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They don't do this. No casual phone calls across time zones; no banter at half-past arse o'clock EDT. No point in dragging it out, they'd said. No use pretending it's something it's not. Best to move on. And yet…</i>
</p><p>Some patterns repeat. Others are meant to be broken. So when Colin rings Bradley in Toronto and proposes a visit, it's surprising, but not at all unwelcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring It Back, Come Rewind

**Author's Note:**

> Commentfic written for Tavern Tales May 2015 theme: [Reversals, Rebirths, Reboots](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/12768.html). Pure, shameless fiction of the shameless, impure variety. Set May 2015 in Toronto (after the _Damien_ upfronts in NYC). Includes references to _Damien_ , _iZombie_ , _Testament of Youth_ and _Humans_ , mostly garnered from their associated BTS and official press. No real spoilers though, unless you're entirely unfamiliar with the characters B and C portray.

**Bring It Back, Come Rewind**

They don't do this. They _don't_. No casual phone calls across time zones; no banter at half-past arse o'clock EDT. They make vague future plans via e-mail, firm them up by text or voicemail tag when they're both in London. 

No point in dragging it out, they'd said. No use pretending it's something it's not. Best to move on. And yet…

* * * 

_'Uh, hello, I'm Bradley James. I'll be playing_ Damien _. In a show called_ Damien _.'_

It had sounded brittle when he'd first said it, but it's even thinner now, heard second-hand through his phone's speakers. Cheap. Ridiculous. On a loop one, two, almost three times before it's cut off; there's a familiar wet-sounding gulp, then Colin's voice – warmer, thicker even though it's worlds away.

'Neil sent it. They catch the guy yet?'

'What guy?' Bradley snaps. He's not sure why. Instinctual counter to Colin's blasted good cheer, most like, as he's far from angry right now, despite being woken. 

'Poor gob running around New York saying he's you. Decent likeness, mind, but not quite, something about the no– '

Bradley mashes a thumb repeatedly on the keypad, random pattern of 5s and 8s, cutting Colin off with the bleeping. 'You're despicable,' he says, smiling as he hears the tell-tale sound of stifled laughter. 'Beyond _belief_. I've half a mind to ring your mum and – '

He's cut off by a loud snort, an 'Ach, no!' before the laughter intensifies. He waits it out, eyes drifting shut as he settles back against the pillows. He realises he's still grinning.

'Sorry, she...' Colin says when the laughing jag has run down. 'Hang on.'

Bradley hears him speaking to someone else – a woman – in a rapid, muffled back-and-forth punctuated by more laughter. He pictures Colin pressing the phone to his chest, or maybe holding it against his thigh. Always shielding, separating. Keeping things just so. He wonders if he's met her before, or if this is someone new.

'Wish you could have seen that.'

Bradley starts, opening his eyes.

'What?'

'My ma, she – they're over for a visit, yeah? Walked past just now, made the sign of the cross when she realised who I was speaking to.'

It takes a second or two for him to make the connection, a second or two of feeling a weird, selfish surge of relief at that 'my ma' before the funny of it slams into him and he's laughing. Bright, raucous, caught-off-guard-by-Colin laughing and he'd forgot how good it feels.

'Your _mum_? Seriously?'

'Mm. Dead-on nun's face on her, too…until she corpsed.'

Bradley switches his mobile to his left hand, uses his right to cover a sudden yawn and rub the gummy corners of his eyes. 'Not burning my pictures then, dousing the DVDs in holy water?'

'Nah. Though…' Colin chuckles. 'Told me she did have them pray for you at mass when first she heard you got the part. Says it's tempting fate, going over such ground as that.'

'Didn't you tell me once that she secretly adores _Dogma_?'

'Ah, now.' Colin swallows another chuckle. 'That'll be Damon's fault – a wee bit – but mostly Rickman's.'

'Damn his eyes.'

'Damn his _voice,_ ' Colin says.

'Whatever.' Bradley sits up, bunching the duvet to his chest. 'So unfair. Didn’t even have any junk in that film and he's still got women swooning over him.'

He says it peevishly, with the intent to make Colin laugh, and it works. 

It works. Seconds, minutes go by, just chatting, taking the piss, riffing off one another's stories, feeling like he's still in his twenties. His craving for more sleep falls away, is replaced by a growl in his belly. Simultaneously he realises that a quarter hour's gone and that he has no idea why Colin's really rung him.

'Oh, right,' Colin says sheepishly when asked. 'I've some free time coming up. I'm headed for the States and I thought… Well, turnabout is fair play.'

'Meaning?'

'Title role, man. Big work. What you always wanted. And you've always turned up for my big nights, so – 

'For your plays, Colin. This is – '

'Long-ass days, lot of standing around being fussed over between takes. I know. But I also know…' Colin blows out a breath, loud enough Bradley can picture the lips that go with it. Something between a huff and a sigh, Colin being impatient with himself. 'It's where your real work happens, and I miss seeing that, yeah? So if you're up for a visit…?'

Bradley's mouth says yes – says a lot more, besides – before his brain thinks it through. By the time the call ends he's almost convinced himself that it's the most normal thing in the world, Colin ringing him out of the blue just when he's feeling a bit homesick and little-fish-in-the-Great-Lakes. Colin ringing him, teasing him – wanting to come for a visit _on set._

He shakes his head. He trades the hoarded warmth beneath the duvet for a steaming shower, trying to wake himself up as much as is possible before caffeine gets involved in the proceedings. All these split days and night shoots are taking their toll, not that he's complaining. _Damien_ of fucking _Damien_ indeed. 

Bradley thinks of Colin's mum crossing herself as he soaps an armpit and cracks up all over again, imagines telling the story to his new family of cast and crew.

 _'This chap I know,'_ he'll say. _'This mate of mine. Raised Catholic, and his mum crosses herself for a laugh now whenever I'm on the line.'_

But there's an uneasiness there; he's not sure if it's the shades of a lie or too much hidden truth. Days go by without him figuring out how to work it naturally into any conversation, so he winds up keeping it to himself, telling himself it's Colin's story to tell if he likes – bit of banter to get him in with the crew if he's hanging about the set. 

He catches himself smiling between takes when he thinks of it though, lets the raw night air excite him rather than chilling him through.

* * *

They don't do this. They don't. No more buzzed or weary tangle of limbs. No more leaning patting hugging neck-rubbing shoulder-napping; no more circling warily round things half-said and barely done in all the days months years they lived in one another's pockets.

No going back, they'd said. No use rehashing it. No bloody point because no bloody future. And yet…

* * *

'Hold _shtill_ ,' Colin insists, all squinched-shut eyes and righteous indignation. He mutters something else that Bradley doesn't catch, the sound blocked by the hands clutching his ears.

Then it's both too quiet and too loud, sitting on the hotel sofa with his pulse on a rampage and Colin's breath, Colin's bare hands on his face. 

Victor bloody Richardson.

No, Vera bloody Brittain. That's who Bradley's choosing to blame. Vera. Bloody. Brittain. Makes him feel a bit of a shit Englishman, but he's not above mouthing it just for the irritation it provokes, the thumbs straying down to catch the edges of his mouth, the up-close pucker of Colin's, 'Shh. C'mon. Trying to concentrate.'

All because Colin had got chatting to some vets earlier at the pub, and apparently Bradley's not above making fun of Colin's swotting tendencies and beer-earnest enthusiasm for random pensioners either. Not above goading him into trying to explain for the nth time that it's not that he's _method,_ per se, but that to wear another person's skin without some sense of how they walk in the world feels 'irreshponsible.'

Not above falling for this nonsense about Colin wanting to properly 'see' him. 

He stops short of actually accusing him of using his research as a cheap chat-up technique, however, because this doesn’t feel like that. 

This is them back in his suite at last, just the two of them after hours of clanking elbows out and about, half-shouting over the din of Toronto's nightlife. This is Colin who he's known for years, who's touched his face before. Who is about the only person who could ask this – could ask _like_ this, for this specific thing just now – and not get a stern look, a shove or a terse 'Piss off, mate.'

This is also the sudden, involuntary seizing of Bradley's gut at Colin's heavy sigh, fighting the instinct to pull away from those cool, relentless fingers – or to grab them, hold them, make bigger demands…

Then Colin's expression smoothes out. He drops his hands but keeps his eyes closed, the corners of his lips sliding up to private-happy; he even hums a little, and dammit if that doesn’t give Bradley the old voyeuristic thrill, send him reeling right back to a state he promised himself he'd never suffer through again.

Helpless, confused affection-desire-whatever. All his usual tricks not working, or working too well. Bravery and fear chasing one another round and round like a dog after it's own tail until it was easier to not think about it, to live in the moment and leave the rest unexamined.

'Well?' Bradley says. Short. Sharpish. He's glad Colin's still got his eyes closed, can’t see how unsettled he is. 

'Thank you,' is all he gets. Calm and easy, and Bradley's fighting the urge to shove him, shake him when he opens his eyes and turns away, mumbling something that starts with 'Still my…'

'What's that now?' Colin pulls a face out at the room – several faces, muscles bunching and releasing, lips pinching this way and that. Bradley jostles his shoulder. 'What?' he repeats. 

Colin blows out a noisy breath and hangs his head, knuckling himself between the eyebrows.

Bradley jostles him again. 'Between you, me and the walls, mate. Go on, spit it out.'

Knowing Colin, Bradley expects his mind's raced on to another topic entirely, so he's not prepared for the sudden, hot glare of those eyes, nor for Colin's accusatory, 'Still my favourite, Bradley. Still my favourite fecking face. So.'

But maybe because Colin's anger quiets his own, or maybe because he's _not_ the same Bradley, has grown up enough to realise that avoidance is only one option, and not necessarily the most conducive to his well-being, he takes a steadying breath and leans back, willing himself to relax against the cushions. 

'So,' he says, settling his arms along the spine of the sofa, the right draped where Colin's shoulders will land when he – _if_ he – leans back too. He holds Colin's gaze, doesn't try and hide behind a friendly smile. 'What do you want to do about that? You've come all this way…'

* * *

They don't do this. They haven't. Never come into a kiss in smiling stop-starts like they're blocking it frame by frame – nervous first date up on the screen. Never kissed on a sofa in a quiet room with all the lights on and the shades open, a whole slice of winking blinking night city outside.

Never thought to try it like this, unhurried and open-ended, like they were just any two people. Like it could be something real in the street. No chance, he'd thought. Never happen. And yet…

* * *

Colin's a better kisser than Bradley remembers. Or maybe it's _him._ Maybe it's just that he's mostly sober, is neither panicked nor wracked with guilt. Maybe it's that he feels good for once, feels in charge – out in front of this instead of being swept helplessly along in its wake.

The beard is new. Not new to Bradley's eyes, or even his hands, but new to their kissing. The broader, firmer shoulders. The scent sharper than he remembers, sweating through the hotel soap. Things that might have intimidated him once – things that might, still, except for the sweet, hungry way Colin hums in his throat, the way he pauses between rounds, face hanging there all open and daft like he can't believe his luck, like he's not sure whether Bradley wants another. 

And each time, Bradley finds that he does. Another kiss. Another string of kisses, mouth as wide as his own, tongue that knows how to yield but also to take, no apologies about beer breath, smudged makeup or the stirrings of an erection.

'Still, hm?' Bradley says during the next pause, thumbing the patch of scruff beneath Colin's lower lip. 

He blinks, caught off guard. Little flash of a forehead frown. 'Huh?'

' _Still_ your favourite.'

'Oh.' The heat's still there, in his eyes, but the grin is almost bashful. 'Aye.'

Bradley slides his thumb up, stroking the softer lip skin, spreading the dampness there. It's partly his own, he realises. He likes the thought, likes it in a way that has him tugging Colin closer, gripping the shoulder that's resting in his palm and cradling his jaw, kissing him slow and firm. 

Kissing past lips to that hot suction mouth and eager tongue, then pulling off abruptly, rubbing his lips over stubble and scruff to say in one ear, 'Not just your hot zombie fetish then.'

Colin's the sort who collapses into his laughter, and it's no different now except Bradley's there to catch him. Gets to feel the full snort and giggle of it, the way it rocks Colin's shoulders and bounces them both up and down on the sofa cushions.

'Hot zombie…' he says, then laughs again, like he's shy of the last word. 'Right, Bradley. _No._ You know I haven't even seen – ' He rears back suddenly, eyes wide, grin infectious. 'Was Katie serious then, you're America's new undead heartthrob?'

Bradley shrugs, suddenly wishing he'd not brought it up. 'Temporarily. To some.' But Colin keeps grinning at him, sly and rosy.

'So what'd you have to do?'

'Not much.' Bradley sighs, running a hand through his hair. 'Dye job, chest wax and a London accent, look like I know my way around women and guitars. Wear lots of black. Great group of people, though. Fun.'

Colin lifts an eyebrow, tilts his head this way and that, studying him.

'What?'

'I'm trying to picture it, you in a band. Zombie rock god. Head-banging, screaming horde of groupies in, you know, buckets of eyeliner and piercings and black nail polish.'

'Stop, stop. It's nothing like that.' Bradley chuckles, reaching to pull Colin back into his orbit. 'But… I did get to kiss the lead.' He fits his smile against Colin's, presses their lips together.

'Lucky lead,' Colin whispers.

'You think so?'

'Aye, I do.' Colin brings his hands to Bradley's face again, but this time he keeps his eyes open, touches with his lips as much as his fingers – silly, nibbling kisses everywhere but on Bradley's mouth, until the tension's too much and he has to swallow the excess spit. Thighs shifting on the sofa. Mouth feeling too empty. Cock wide awake and hips wanting to move.

It emboldens him to say, 'Got to take her to bed, too.'

The kisses stop, then he feels Colin's breath warm in his ear, hears his filthy hum. 'Oh? On screen or off?'

'Strictly professional,' Bradley says. He dares a hand on Colin's waist, over his layers but with intent, _holding_ him rather than a quick pat or grab, shaping his fingers to the body below.

Colin clucks his tongue. 'I think…' He pulls his head back to look Bradley in the eyes, drops a hand down between them. For a moment Bradley thinks his touch is unwelcome until he looks down, too, and sees that Colin's trying to give him more. He yanks his shirts up out of the way, fumbles Bradley's hand onto his bare skin. 'I think we can do better than that, don't you?'

And Bradley doesn’t have to think about it to know that the answer is simultaneously 'Too bloody right!' and 'Well, Colin, I don’t honestly know, but isn't it about damn time we tried?' 

He says neither, doesn't answer at all except with a crushing kiss, an involuntary noise of appreciation when his thumb finds a firm muscle ridge and furrow. He follows it down to the beltline and pauses there, fingertips hooked over Colin's waistband. 

'Someone's been keeping at the gym,' he murmurs.

'You're one to talk,' Colin says, restless hands moving down from Bradley's neck and shoulders, smoothing his shirt across his chest.

They kiss again, this one calm and careful. Lips just so.

'What do you want right now?' Bradley says after. He needs to know, to hear it aloud.

Colin bites his lip, looking down. 'Um. Suppose "everything" 's a bit much, so…' He looks up, pushing into Bradley's grip, smiling his most infuriating smile. Mona Lisa with a dirty secret. 'Take me to bed?'

* * *

They've never done this, not really. Never done more than fierce, sloppy kisses in dark corners or behind locked doors, rutting blindly against thighs, hips, or the odd helping hand.

Never half-undressed in one lit room and finished in another, sitting side by side on the bed shucking socks before diving back in – tumbling onto the bed for more kisses, more of Colin's bare skin than Bradley's ever felt before.

Never mind that one time he'd let Colin push his cock between his thighs only to pull away, finishing him off with his hand instead as he'd blindly stared at the telly in the corner, wishing he could explain that the panic was less to do with the cock than his tumult of feelings about the person attached to it; no, that night is best forgot.

And yet…

* * *

'These too, Boy Wonder,' Bradley says, reaching down and snagging a finger in the elastic of Colin's pants. They're dark green and fit him like a second skin, squashing all his junk into an impressive bulge, but in bed or out of it, Bradley's no window shopper. He prefers handling the goods.

'Ah,' Colin says, flushing as he's again caught out ogling Bradley's cock – hungry there-and-away-again glances, like he's not sure he's allowed. It's both ridiculous and endearing, and if Bradley weren't already hard he'd be getting there; he's never had anyone look at him quite like this before.

'Um, wasn't sure you'd want – '

'What, your pasty Irish bum on my sheets?' Bradley cuts in, letting the elastic snap against Colin's hipbone. 'Why, is it catching?' 

Colin snorts, pushing him away and rolling onto his back. 'No, but…' He pauses with his thumbs hooked into his waistband and turns his head to look at Bradley. 'You're good with this, then? Because you don't have to touch me, you know. I'm happy to – '

' _Colin._ ' Bradley props himself up on his elbow, lifts an eyebrow. 'I am aware that you're the owner of a penis. Was probably the second – no, third – thing I noticed about you, and I think it should get in on this party, so if you could, you know…' He whirls a hand in a hurry-it-up gesture, looks pointedly at Colin's lap.

This earns him a half-laugh and dubious expression, but Colin obediently lifts his hips and shoves his pants down, then rocks into an awkward sit-up to kick them off his legs, stiff, full-blooded cock slapping back against his pale stomach.

'What was the first?' 

'Never you mind.' Bradley moves quickly to pin Colin to the mattress – palm on his chest, leg slung over his thigh – and kiss him again. It's about one-third a calculated distraction attempt, because the answer is embarrassing, and two-thirds because he wants that connection back. Wants those soft, full lips and hot wedge of tongue destroying the space between them, lessening any chance of misunderstandings.

The position also has the advantage of giving Bradley a solid helping of Colin to rub up against, to loom over as he looks his fill, deciding what to taste next. Earlobes. Shoulder. Nipple.

Colin's breath speaks volumes, as do the swallowed hums, the roving, clutching hands and the tensed thighs. The cock lodged against Bradley's belly, now skidding a little through its own slick. 

Colin's always had a very different sort of body than the ones Bradley's used to sleeping with, but it has also always… not _fit_ with his, exactly, as with men half the thrill for him comes from that clash, the challenge of same-but-other. But it's always been a body he's responded to at the limbic level, circling round and round in the primal quandary: Do I fight it or fuck it; eat it or take it under my wing and protect it from harm? 

What to do, what to do…

'Something about my ears, right?' Colin guesses during one of Bradley's detours down his neck.

'No.'

'Accent, then.'

'Warmer.' Bradley noses the scruff under Colin's jaw, sucks a hard kiss there and pulls a face, deciding the beard feels better on his cheek than his tongue. 'That was the second. Bit of panic about only catching every third word out of your mouth.'

'Felt so stupid,' Colin admits. 'Way you looked at me. Way out of my depth.'

'I'm sorry for that,' Bradley says, dropping a softer kiss on Colin's lips, daring a look into his own version of the dreaded depths, whatever it is that animates the cool colour of Colin's eyes.

 _Fuck me he's pretty._ That had been Bradley's initial reaction when Colin had first pinned him with those eyes. Along with, _He knows something I don't._

Both thoughts as inexplicable at the time as they'd been instantaneous, so Bradley's only ever counted them as one thing, his first impression of Colin: Fuck me he's pretty he knows something I don't.

'And I'm sorry I…' Colin closes his eyes, tilts his face aside, away from Bradley's gaze, and that won’t do.

'Don't want apologies from you, mate.' Bradley says, not entirely disguising the rough edge to his voice. 'That's ancient history. Right now I think we should fuck.'

Colin's eyes fly open at that, positively _blazing_ , those puffed pink lips parting around a startled breath. 

Cock-sucking lips. Bradley had thought that, too, many a guilty time while he was busy staring at them, trying to work out what Colin was saying.

'Yeah?' Colin says, expression easing from lust-shock into a familiar smile. It's the kind the rest of the world calls innocent and easy-going, and Bradley alone can see for what it is – sheer Morgan cheek. 'Grand. Brought some stuff just in case. You let me up I'll go fetch it.'

Bradley surges into Colin, nosing his cheek, kissing the corner of his mouth. 'What made you think,' he says, reaching behind himself to grab Colin's hand off his arse and manoeuvre it up, planting it deep in a pillow above their heads, 'that I wouldn't have stuff of my own? Hm?'

* * *

They don't… Until they do. Until they _are._

Hardscrabble at first, tussle and clash of limbs over every part of the bed, words teasing but mouths and fingers growing ever more urgent on skin. No booze no telly no music no excuses; no rough day tough scene bad temper that needs exorcising; no contract worries or call sheets hanging over their heads. Bradley's free for the next 20 hours or so; Colin's return flight isn't until Tuesday. 

They're doing this, choosing this like any two mates who find they fancy it, who might've never met but did, who have a solid block of shared history taking the edge off the awkwardness, but have been apart long enough – have _never_ been near enough – to add that extra kick of strange.

Deciding to have sex because they want it and why the hell not? It needn't mean anything more. And yet…

* * *

'Heads up.'

'Wha– Oh, cheers.' Colin sits up to snag the lube Bradley tosses him from the bathroom doorway. His cheeks and chest are flushed a splotchy red, his hair a rat's nest that good PR might be able to sell as flyaway curls. Lips, dick and a few patches in between glistening with spit or the pre-ejaculate he's been leaking. Left nipple puffy and reddened. Marks coming up on his shoulders and neck. Bradley's work, all of it.

He smiles as he re-focuses on rummaging in his wash bag, briefly debating condom quantity – one's naïve but a whole pile's laughable, the women in his life have assured him of this – before he realises that he doesn't want to put limits on this scenario, doesn't mind if Colin laughs. 

He rips the top off the brand-new box and brings it with him, dropping it on the nightstand before sliding back into bed, murmuring, 'Now where were we, hm?'

Colin gives him a raised eyebrow and tight, inscrutable smile. Then his gaze flicks down, once more fastening on Bradley's cock. He swallows. 'Um, hang on. I'll just…' He rolls away onto his stomach, fumbling with the cap as he hitches a knee up.

It takes Bradley a moment to realise what he's intending to do. And he'd like to see that some day, he really would, but just now it feels like a slap – just another of Colin's little self-sufficiencies, always tripping Bradley up, keeping him at a longer arm's length than he'd like. 

His reaction's pure, selfish instinct. Rolling on top, hooking a heel round Colin's ankle to push that leg back down, pinning him with his full weight, erection mashed to arse cleft and teeth _this_ shy of actually breaking the skin at the back of Colin's neck because maybe – goddamn it! – _maybe_ Colin was always supposed to be his, and Bradley's justified in wanting no arms, no distance at all. 

'Give me that,' he says in response to Colin's confused grunt. He reaches for his wrist, nuzzling his neck, worming his fingers in until he can pry the lube from Colin's grasp. 'Like to be in on the warm-up, if you don't mind.'

Bradley can feel the tension in Colin's frame give way, air punched out of his lungs in a gusty exhalation. 'No! _Jesus_ Bradley, no, but – ' He turns his face to the side and sucks in a shallow breath, empty fingers curling into loose fists. Bradley must be crushing him, yet he makes no move to throw him off. Hums even, flexing his arse like the cheeky tart that he is. 'You sure?' 

'Well this chap I know,' Bradley says, responding with a gentle thrust of his hips, 'been raving at me all night about touch learning. Thought I might give it a go. Never did like going in blind.' 

He doesn't know if the resulting groan is Colin being turned on or less than impressed, but the full-body undulating slide – Colin's bucking attempt to lift his hips and spread his thighs – is anything but ambiguous.

* * *

They're doing _this_ : Colin up on elbows and knees, head hanging down, trying to hold still. Giving up – giving in – and rocking back onto Bradley's slick fingers like he's clearly been dying to do ever since the first one slid all the way in. 

Bradley's got two in now, index and middle overlapped in a sturdy spear, rubbing a protracted hello to Colin's prostate as he kneels behind him. It's quite the view – seeing part of himself disappear _inside_ Colin – but all credit due to the touch learning, as it's 90% the feel of it, slippery soft over a strong, squeezing heat, that's giving Bradley's cock definite ideas, making his skin feel too tight. 

Then there's Colin's breathing, his control wrecked beyond anything Bradley's heard before. When Colin really starts to move, Bradley abandons his free hand's wandering exploration of glutes and balls and backs of thighs – all those private curves normally hidden by his clothes – and rests his palm on Colin's lower back, bracing them both, half-wishing he could reach his mouth. He wants to lap up every stuttered pant and throat-whine, every scrap of mumbled encouragement or… 

Bradley grins, thinking that Colin could be calling him all sorts of dirty names under his breath and he'd never know – thinking how, either way, it wouldn’t change the meaning one bit. They've never needed to speak the same English to share a language, and Colin's clearly loving this.

And yet…

* * *

'Ngh, fecking… _ah_.' Colin suddenly pulls off Bradley's fingers and flips onto his back, rubbing a hand over his face, clutching his balls in the other.

Taking this as his cue to suit up, Bradley dives sideways towards the nightstand, reaching at full-stretch to pluck a condom from the box with his non-sticky hand. Before he can sort how he's supposed to open the wrapper one-handed, he feels a tug on his calf.

' 'Mere, lemme,' Colin says. Bradley looks over, sees that he's on his side now, watching Bradley with heavy-lidded eyes. He's covered in a fine sheen of sweat, breath still ragged and audible. He rests his other hand on the bed, palm up. 'Let me. Please.'

Wordlessly, Bradley shimmies back, stretching out beside him and leaning in for a deep kiss. He ignores Colin's open hand, instead pressing the packet against his chest. It sticks in the sweat for a moment before falling between them.

Colin cuffs him lightly over the ear, smiling, and takes hold of Bradley's wrists. His eyes blink fully open, filthy gaze flicking between the wet fingers and the dry, then up to eye level. His smile spreads. 

'O then, dear saint,' he says in impassioned RP, furrowing his brow, 'let pricks do what hands do?'

'What on… _Colin._ ' Bradley resists grinning – just – but only through tremendous self-discipline. He narrows his eyes and lifts his chin, aping stern because inside he's foundering in waves of fondness, for who but Colin would choose this moment to revive such a game? Lewd misquotes of the Bard, dropped in an ear before a take or announced with a straight face in company, waiting to see who corpses first, making bets on how people will react.

'That's the general idea, yes,' Bradley says when he feels he can speak without laughing. 'Though if you'd rather exchange verse…?'

Colin shakes his head. 'I would not,' he says solemnly. 'But first.' He opens his mouth.

Bradley honest-to-god gasps at the feel of Colin's tongue against his fingertips, wet and fluttering, skimming the tips of each digit – even the sticky ones – before tracking back to his left hand and sucking the forefinger deep into his mouth.

He gasps because it's sudden and a little wrong-hot, because it looks obscene but feels nice – almost comforting – but mostly because, as far as Bradley's concerned, Colin's just ripped the roof off this thing. He's raised the bar impossibly high, using bloody _Shakespeare_ to tell Bradley he wants to suck his cock.

'Vile-tongued... uh, whoreson,' Bradley says, because he won't be outdone. He reminds himself that he's the one with ultimate control of his fingers, that he knows Shakespeare, too. He thrusts another finger in, pressing down on Colin's tongue, gently probing his throat to see if he'll choke. He doesn't. Of course he bloody doesn't. Probably too polite to have a gag reflex.

'Varlet,' he whispers, leaning in to skim kisses across Colin's cheeks. 'Knave. Perfidious swine.'

Colin spits his fingers out, laughing. He looses Bradley's wrists and, with one of his leprechaun-grade beaming expressions, claps a hand on Bradley's arse and uses it to anchor himself as he scoots down the bed.

'O trespass sweetly urged!' he mumbles, kissing Bradley' stomach, rubbing his beard scruff in places that make Bradley squirm.

Bradley opens his mouth to say something else, but somehow Colin knows. 'Shh,' he says, glancing up, and in the next instant he's – there's no other word for it – snogging Bradley's junk.

* * *

They are: Bradley – surprised and mildly embarrassed, but mostly turned on – letting Colin ease him onto his back and spread his thighs. Letting those long, sly fingers tongue imagination do what they will, because while he's had generous A-for-effort blowjobs and scary-hot passive-aggressive blowjobs he's never had…

Never had a man's face – _Colin's_ face – buried between his thighs like there's no place he'd rather be, making those same delighted humming noises from earlier, when they'd started kissing on the sofa. Licking the creases of Bradley's hips and the length of his shaft, lapping and sucking at his balls, rubbing that spot just below that makes him feel as if his cock's grown an extra inch. 

Never seen Colin so blissed open unguarded outside a scene, not even on those rare occasions when he was smashed off his face. 

Never had his throat clench up like this, tongue like lead in his mouth and hands uncertain, maybe wanting to reach down and stroke that tangle of dark hair, maybe wanting to grip it, maybe wanting to pull it hard.

Never had to blink back the angry, hot salt sting in his eyes realising just how much of himself Colin had kept hidden, even back when Bradley'd been damn near half his whole waking world for months on end – how much he'd _withheld._

And yet…

* * *

Colin's not withholding now.

Just when the confused wonder of it starts to edge into low-level irritation – never getting enough sensation in any one place long enough to let it build – Colin pauses, looking up with creased, smiling eyes.

He wipes his mouth with a thumb, mumbles something that Bradley doesn't quite catch – that it's been a good day, perhaps, or something about being a good lay? – then pops Bradley's cock into his mouth and swallows it down to the root in one, two, three rounds of throat flutter-squeeze and release, his nostrils flaring wide.

'Ngh-aa- _ah_...' Bradley convulses, sitting partway up, then collapsing back on the bed, arms spread wide as Colin starts to move. 'Oh shit Col that's… um. Mm.' 

He tries not to thrust too much, doesn't want to muck up the rhythm as Colin's clearly _got_ this, head moving down and up relentless as a pumpjack, firm nudge of fingers under his balls, other hand threaded through Bradley's pubic hair, restless fingertips bearing down with just enough pressure to make him aware of it in a way he usually isn't.

His whole groin area feels like it's been lit up, dick at the centre of a private pleasure arcade with klaxons and flashing lights, all the bells and bloody whistles and who even has time for feelings but here they are, bashing him round the head – even as he flings a forearm over his eyes – with the fact that either way, the correct response is 'Yes.' Yes, Colin's a good lay. Yes it's been a good day, a very damn good day indeed. About to get better.

It comes out as a long, low groan rather than any proper speech and Colin, damn him, pulls off to clarify things.

'Y'alright there?' His voice is hoarse, scratchy. His voice is _sex._

Bradley pounds the mattress with his outflung fist, then raises his forearm and peers down, figuring it's time to confess.

'I…' he says. He pushes up onto an elbow, finds himself reaching for Colin's face, thumbing one of those damn cheekbones and the slick margin of his lips before he's made up his mind to do it. 'Mate, I am absolutely brilliant. But I'm going to come pretty damn soon if you keep that up, so…'

Bradley watches his thumb get nudged aside, pushed wide by Colin's blinding grin.

'Yeah? Sorry,' he says, all sheepish-like despite the grin. 'Got a bit carried away.' He butts his face into Bradley's thigh, inhales deeply and presses a final kiss there before gathering himself, kneeling up between Bradley's legs. Blinking. Idly scratching his belly, his scruffy jawline. Face now as flushed and messy as his prick.

'That condom still about somewhere? I'd really like…'

'Yes?' Bradley says, casting his eyes over the bed, locating the packet wedged partway beneath his left elbow. He hates how hard he's breathing, how wrecked he sounds, how aware he is of the ghosts of Colin's touches and the spit drying on his hole.

He'd been assuming from all that's just gone down that he'd be the one on top, but if Colin now wants the condom for himself…

Anything once, is what Bradley's always said. And now he'll add this: Anything for another glimpse of between-the-thighs Colin. Blissful, cocksucking, lost-in-Bradley Colin. He holds the condom up, slotted between his middle and index fingers, and lifts an eyebrow.

'This what you're looking for?'

Colin beams at him again, as if finding a bright blue foil packet amidst white bed linens is some sort of feat, then plucks it from his hand. He tears the wrapper and tosses it aside, carefully pinching the condom's tip.

'Allow me,' he says, perching it like a crown on Bradley's dick and rolling it down before Bradley can hyperventilate himself into saying, 'Yeah alright, but go slow.'

The condom's pre-lubed, feels cool and wet. Bradley feeling relieved and maybe a little disappointed, but mostly reeling from the sudden force of his desire. Everything focussed now, and brilliantly clear. They're doing this. They are.

He winces as a few pubic hairs get caught up in the base of the condom. Their hands meet for a fumbling moment, then Colin pulls his away with a laughing, 'Sorry, I'll just…'

Bradley sits up, still gripping his cock, fondly watching Colin's graceless scramble for the lube. He squirts out a generous dollop and warms it between his hands. Before Bradley can tease him for the courtesy or comment on the filthy sound of it, he plunges his right hand back between his own arse cheeks and smears the other warm handful down Bradley's cock.

'Soon's grand,' Colin whispers, leaning in, bumping noses while angling for a kiss. It takes Bradley a moment to rewind their conversation to the point where the words makes sense. 'But…' he goes on, breath coming a little faster, hand still loosely jerking Bradley's cock. 'Um, I want to really feel it, yeah? So don’t hold back on my account.'

Bradley wants to laugh at the irony of the request. Would have, once. Hell, might have just hours, minutes ago. But faced with another shy, beardy kiss, then the sight of Colin once he's backed away and flipped over – artlessly displaying himself with arse upraised and thighs spread – Bradley finds that all he wants to do is crowd up behind him and touch as much as he can reach. 

Then more. Touch him inside. Find that angle again, that pressure that makes Colin breathe like he's been gut-punched. Rub his cock all along that tight cleft, the slick seam where Colin's halves come together, rubbing down and up past his own burrowing finger until Colin's panting and squirming and Bradley's _aching_ with need, and what's left of his brain reminds him that all he has to do to solve the problem is to – hello, Bradley – quit cockblocking himself. Pull finger out. Push penis in.

He shuffles up a bit, clamping his legs round Colin's and positioning the tip of his cock to take over as soon as he's pulled his finger out. Feeling bigger blunter rude and impossibly _more_ but, as he knows from the women who've asked for this, trusting that it'll work just fine. Will fit like a goddamn glove. Wet velvet with a mind of its own.

'Ah…ah _jesus,_ ' Colin pants as Bradley breaches him.

'Not here right now,' Bradley grits out, manhandling Colin's hips into a better position and sucking air through his teeth at the sudden, glorious pressure of sliding all the way inside. 'Guess again.' 

Colin's laugh is a visceral thing, literally squeezing Bradley's dick as if trying to push it out. He snaps his hips forward in response, re-discovering the – equally glorious – concept of friction.

'Bra– _ah_.' Colin breaks off on a wet gasp as Bradley buries himself balls-deep and pitches forward, catching himself on his elbows.

Bradley rests for a moment, desperate not to come just yet despite what Colin's said, finding his breath and planting humid kisses along those acres of pale skin.

Colin's sides are heaving, fresh beads of sweat gathering in the runnels along his spine. 'Bradley,' he says. Not a question, not a caution, but a simple statement of fact.

'Yes,' Bradley murmurs, searching out and kissing each mole, each freckle as he rocks his hips. Shallow sway forward and back like a sketch, laying down the outlines of fucking. 'Yes, I'm here.'

* * *

They _are._

They are fucking shagging love making hooking up two hearts two sides of the same copping off cock in arse when a man loves et cetera – fill in the blank with whatever phrase suits, but Bradley knows he's never been closer than this, driving the breath out of Colin's lungs with every thrust, relishing the tight heat and meaty slap of skin on skin.

They're here, together, and Bradley's having him, really _having_ him.

And yet…

* * *

'Here, just – ' Bradley pulls out, hand steadying the base of the condom, strangling his dick. It's a violent separation, the sudden loss of that perfect sheath. Colin makes a gasping, querulous sound and Bradley whips his hand up to grip his shoulder, then tug on it, bending his head low, lips mashed against one scarlet ear. 'Turn over.'

He can't handle any protest right now, nor a more coherent explanation. Certainly isn't going to voice his sudden need to see Colin's face, to fill his mouth as well as his arse, to feel him, not just taking it, but reaching out for it, wrapping Bradley up in arms and legs and pulling him in. 

He backs off enough so Colin can move but doesn't break contact, keeps touching as Colin collects his breath, pushes halfway up and flips over. Sweat-slick slide of skin under Bradley's palms. Watching Colin's heaving chest and stomach, the firm rounds of leg muscle shifting, straining as Bradley grips the backs of Colin's thighs and pushes them up. Exposing taut shiny skin the colour of a bruise and his wet, clenching hole.

Exposing _Colin_ with his loose fists and flushed, rumpled face; his fierce, bright eyes; his wet lashes... 

Bradley pauses, stunned, when he spots the damp, puffy skin around Colin's eyes, the tell-tale shine of leaking tears. 'Hey, you al– '

Colin cuts him off with a forceful exhale and a warning look – eyes narrowed, defiant thrust of chin – followed by a scratchy, 'Fecking amazin.' He reaches down, fisting Bradley's cock, ramming the head of it back up against his hole. 'C'mere now,' he says, eyes, hand and whole taut, trembling body blazing with an unspoken _please._

Bradley doesn’t need asking twice. He pushes in with a rolling snap of his hips, letting go of Colin's legs and pitching forward. Catches himself with his elbows on either side of Colin's head – shuddering at the whole-body relief of being back inside – and burying his moan in the heat of Colin's mouth. 

Slowly at first. Rolling, dragging thrusts and deep kisses, tongue to tongue. Colin's hands on his face again, not so gentle as before and Bradley likes it better like this. Strong fingers smearing the flesh over his bones, pushing into his hair and sliding around his neck – greedy, uncompromising. 

Bradley watching those bright eyes between kisses, urging them open with his thumbs so he can see the flash of irritation become laughter, wonder, then dark, urgent need. The awareness of Colin's cock, raw and wet between them.

The kisses grow more frantic, clatter of lips and teeth. Colin trying to speak with Bradley's tongue in his mouth; he laps up the garbled pleas for 'more' or 'move' – it's all the same to Bradley – and clasps his hands together above Colin's head. Gets his elbows in tight by Colin's ears, forearms braced to take his own weight as he sets up a driving rhythm – and _one,_ and _one,_ and _one,_ like a piston – rocking their bodies into the mattress, making it thud against the headboard. 

Fucking bliss, this, making Colin's lips curve up around his muted grunts and whines. Picking up the pace and fucking him free of that last attempt at holding back, until his forehead's pinched and his mouth's hanging open, gasping for air and panting it back out in an unfettered, unfiltered 'Uh…ng-uh…uh.' 

Bradley buries his face in Colin's neck, letting the scent sound taste of him screw the pleasure tighter, higher, trying to remember the last time it was ever this good – if it ever was. Deciding not to panic when he draws a blank. Smiling at Colin's noises instead, thrilling at the way he's clutching him, fingers like hot brands all down his back and sides.

So maybe he enjoys a sloppy side of kiss and cuddle while he fucks, loves feeling hands scrabbling to hold on and heels digging into his bum, loves feeling like he – he, _Bradley_ – is someone's whole happy world for a moment, craves the delusion that there's something unique about the ride he's giving them. So what?

Then Colin gives him a full-body squeeze – arms, legs, and arse clamping down tight – says, 'Mmmbreh…ah…dley' in that ragged pant as he nuzzles into Bradley's hair and Bradley's last coherent thought before his brain drops clear down to his balls and he starts to come is that the thing with Colin is… 

The thing with Colin is, is that it doesn’t feel like a delusion at all.

* * *

They're not done yet.

Bradley feels it in the way Colin keeps moving, rocking his hips through Bradley's last pump and shudder, sees the proof when he pulls out: Colin's still hard, dick all shiny dark, piss slit beaded with clear fluid. He'd feel a cad save for the way Colin's looking up at him – smiling with his eyes, a benevolent, lazy summer afternoon sort of smile that has no business being paired with a raging hard-on. 

Bradley watches him unfurl, stretching his arms over his head and splaying his legs wide, humming as he arches his back. Breath evening out, seemingly self-contained once more while Bradley feels like he's been running for hours, like his body's fizzing, sparking, bleeding colour outside the lines. 

It's not fair.

'Don't you dare,' Bradley rasps when he sees Colin's hand slipping down, reaching for his own cock. 

The smile spreads from Colin's eyes to his mouth, turns mischievous. 'No?'

Bradley glares, or tries to – most of his remaining brain cells are engaged in removing and tying off the condom – and jerks his chin up towards the head of the bed. 'Put it back.' 

Colin rolls his eyes but obeys, withdrawing his hand and stretching it back up alongside the other. He watches Bradley with soft, curious eyes as he finishes up with the condom, murmurs that he'll be right back and stumbles off to the en suite bathroom on jelly legs.

He's intending to quickly dispose of the condom and wash up, then wet a flannel for them to clean up with once they're done. 

He's intending to lube his palm and gather Colin close, finish him off with a slick hard wank, swallowing down the noises he makes when he comes.

And yet…

* * *

'Bradley?' Colin blinks as he struggles up onto his elbows, rubbernecking at Bradley's particular journey back onto the bed, at what he's now got in his hands.

'Put it on,' Bradley says, holding his gaze as he fumbles the condom packet into Colin's hand.

'I…ah…ehm…' Eyes widening, nostrils flaring, dick jerking against his belly as Bradley nudges his thighs closer together so he can comfortably straddle them.

Colin's still gawping once Bradley's settled, which is unnerving. He presses a slick thumb just under the head of Colin's dick and drags it down, saying, 'On _this,_ mate,' in his most patronising tone.

It earns him a gasp and a bitten-off curse, shock and delight chasing over Colin's face, giving way to an expression so raw Bradley has to fight the urge to look away or close his eyes. He'd almost swear Colin can see inside his head, knows about that moment back there in the bathroom when he'd looked up from washing his hands, nearly laughed at the state of himself and yet…

Liked what he saw. Thought, _Fuck me he's pretty he knows something…_

Knows exactly who he is and what he wants, the gist of which is: They're not done yet. Not by a long shot. 'Put it on,' Bradley repeats, firm but quiet. No need to shout. 'Unless you're saying no, in which case…' 

He waggles the lube, intending to make some wisecrack about _not_ sticking it where the sun don't shine, but suddenly Colin's tearing into the packet and rolling the condom down his dick with bit-lip concentration, eyes flicking up to Bradley and back down to the task as if he's worried Bradley might change his mind.

'Right then,' Bradley says, smiling as he thumbs the cap open. He mimics Colin's warming-the-lube routine, smears some down Colin's wrapped dick and reaches back to finger himself with the rest. Shallowly at first, working himself beyond the instinct to clench up, past the oddness of relaxing for something going in rather than out. Breathing into it, watching the way Colin's watching him until it's too much and not enough, the strange of it still there, but rapidly losing out to an edgy pleasure and Bradley's natural instinct to just...

Go for it. 

_'Go for it, mate.'_ What he should have said to himself to Colin years ago except the problem was never with _this,_ not really, never about cocks and arses and whose went where, but with the onrushing, jumped-the-rails train of feelings that accompanied anything to do with Colin back then – with the fact that they were both too young and insecure and stupid-serious, in such a rush to not fuck up fall down get stuck get saddled with labels they couldn't outrun. 

They'd put brackets round the physical side of things, tucked it away in dark corners, treated it as something secret and fraught as if that would keep them safe from any real attachment, when by all accounts they were already joined at the bloody hip.

'Please…Bradley, _please,_ ' Colin says, fingers clenching unclenching above his head as Bradley knee-shuffles into position. Mouth hanging open between the words, eyelids heavy. 'C'n I touch you now?'

'Hm?' For a moment Bradley's puzzled by the request, as he's got Colin's dick in hand, is even now rubbing the tip against his loosened hole as he shifts his hips, trying to find the right angle. Then he remembers way back five minutes ago when he told Colin to keep his arms up so he wouldn't finish himself off, realises that Colin took it as a fucking _order_ , has been voluntarily restraining himself with nary a rope or clichéd necktie in sight. 

It's a bit silly, yet it turns him on, too. So instead of some generic 'Yes of course, Col, knock yourself out,' Bradley looks him in the eyes and says, 'Hands on my thighs, Morgan. And hold on.'

Colin inhales sharply and blinks up at him – no one, Bradley decides, can quite pull off sexy-gormless the way Colin does – then gives a small, smiling nod. 

Bradley watches those familiar hands reaching for him, familiar fingers spreading over his bare thighs. Feels the light squeeze, a proprietary surrender. Bradley appreciates the subtlety of it, thinks it hilarious in counterpoint to the decidedly _un_ -subtle feel of sinking down on Colin's cock, which is suddenly fucking _enormous_ , feels like it's expanding inside him, searing him, stealing his breath away so the only thing for it is to lean forward, haul Colin up by his neck and shoulders, seal up his mouth and try and steal it back.

Then, as abruptly as it came on, the burn fades. Bradley's left with an aching pressure on his prostate, a giddy fullness, and Colin tensing beneath him, a hot mess of impending 'O' face and fish out of water, gasping 'Unh…ngh, ah, _ah._ '

'Hold on,' Bradley repeats, brushing the words across one flushed cheek before he straightens up, braces himself on Colin's chest, and begins to move.

* * *

They do this: holding on and letting go. All night long, the old give and take turned to a new, richer purpose. Stripped naked fucked out rinsed clean – going for it again in the shower, Bradley fingering Colin incoherent as he ruts against him, then two cocks one fist and a whole lot of soap suds making for a brilliant finale – towelled off and tucked in side by side. 

None of the maddening circling and dangerous leaning in, not any more. Just the two of them, coming together to re-learn one another's shapes now that they've switched off the lights – hands no longer in a hurry, kisses chastened by the chalky residue of Bradley's toothpaste – and moving apart as it suits them. Too warm. Too lazy. Limbs starting to prickle and numb.

Settling into pillows and claiming sections of the duvet. Small, reassuring points of connection in the darkness – wrists brushing shoulders, bumper car knees, wandering feet. Talking the best, easiest sort of nonsense until Bradley nods off.

And yet…

* * *

Waking in the grey pre-dawn to find Colin curled against his side like a backwards comma, arse pressed to Bradley's hip. Shifting so he's spooning him. Leaning up on one elbow and watching him sleep, thinking of the handful of other times he's done it – mostly odd, stolen moments between destinations. On trains or in the van, during the long transatlantic flights. The fear of being caught, questioned.

Right now, though, all is still. Now Bradley can look as long as he likes, and the resulting fondness isn't soured by guilt, nor sliding into confused irritation. He no longer cares why he enjoys this, just knows that he does. 

Colin sleeping looks either very earnest – a sweet pinch of brows and lips, dreaming eyes twitching beneath his lids – or very hobo-passed-out-in-the-gutter, dead to the world with his mouth gone slack, emitting the odd snore or lip smack. He'd drooled on one of Bradley's hoodies once, on the Eurostar, and Bradley hadn't teased him for it. Never said a word, actually, but considered the thing lucky from then on, for reasons he didn’t entirely understand nor wish to examine at the time. 

Bradley sighs. It was what it was. He can't change the past. 

He can, however, pull goofy faces at Colin's dreaming one, can air trace one eyebrow and the shell of an ear, finger hovering a millimetre above. He considers a cheeky wet willy – Katie did it once and it was epic, made Colin squawk like a stepped-on cat – but decides against it. Doesn't want to risk getting smacked in the face. Besides, now there are better options…

Colin twitches, eyelids fluttering. 'Weirdo,' he mutters, as if he knows exactly what Bradley's been thinking. Then, 'Nooo…don't wanna…' and something about sex with toasters.

Bradley stifles a laugh – he knows now who'd win last night's argument about strangest work-induced nightmares – and hides his grin on the back of Colin's neck. Kisses him there where the skin is thin and soft, smoothing his hand from shoulder to elbow, waist to hip to thigh. Flips his hand down and cups Colin's bum, moving his palm in a slow circle. Kissing and kissing, firm but gentle. Inhaling the scent of Colin beneath the hotel soap – probably scent of Bradley-on-Colin, too. Hearing the small changes in his own breath as this idea sticks and flares into warm pressure in his groin. Feeling his cock starting to stiffen. Listening to Colin's breath kick-start as he comes fully awake.

Colin yawns, stretches, then burrows back into Bradley's touch. Mumbles, ' 'Lo there.'

'Good morning, Colin.' Bradley resumes his fondling but with more pressure, massaging the meat of Colin's arse. Restrains himself – just – from mindless humping because he's a gentleman like that.

'Time's it?'

'What do you care, mate? You're on holiday.' Hand sliding lower, fingers brushing fuzz and that soft, secret skin.

Colin lets out a quiet chuckle. 'Oh…aye.' 

'Aye indeed.' Fingers brushing and curling in. A kiss right in the centre of his nape – which makes him shiver – and another on the knob of his spine.

He bows his head and shifts his top leg, giving Bradley more access. 'What's on for today then?'

'Indulging your love of heights – in style. Ridiculously posh lunch at the CN Tower. They do a veggie prix fixe, I checked. Which means – '

'Aw, cheers, man,' Colin murmurs. He briefly cranes his head back; Bradley catches the corner of a smile, the sleepy blink of lashes over a bright eye.

'You're welcome.' Bradley swallows, tries to remember what he was saying. 'Which means that – ' Well, clearly what it means is that he'd planned a bloody _date_ days back without realising it, but that hardly needs saying. ' – we have approximately six hours to fill…and ten remaining condoms.'

Colin snort-laughs, involuntarily squeezing Bradley's hand between his buttocks. 'What about breakfast?'

Bradley grins. He's not going to say it, though it's the world's most perfect set up. He _isn't._ He… 

Goddamn it.

He nuzzles up to Colin's ear, smiling, and says, 'I'll have _you_ for breakfast.'

* * *

They do: Laughing, half-hearted tussle as dawn breaks over the Toronto skyline, flooding the room with pale, butter-coloured light. 

Stale mint morning kisses turning hungry and wet, and sex on their sides like naughty spoons, locked together with clamped arms and interwoven fingers, Bradley dragging his morning scruff across Colin's neck and sharp shoulder blades as he strokes deep, deeper into his body. 

Colin moving with him, panting softly, dragging their joined hands down to wring out the last of an orgasm that comes on sudden, strong – and largely unaided – in the wake of Bradley's mouth on Colin's earlobe, his murmured, 'You all right there, Morgan? 'Cause I'm…you feel so… _mmm_.'

So good. So close. Knowing he should probably pull out for Colin's comfort; Colin urging him to stay and finish with a back-flung arm and hand clutching at Bradley's thigh, a ragged plea muffled on a pillow.

Dozing off after taking care of the condom, vaguely aware of fingers making soft tracks through his hair, stroking his chest.

Waking to an empty bed, and yet…

* * *

Bradley can see their discarded socks still mingled on the floor, hears the unmistakable sound of the toilet flushing and the taps being run.

The bathroom door opens, Colin slowly emerging with eyes fixed on the bed. He's wearing last night's pants; his hair's still a wreck. When he sees that Bradley's awake he stops, starts, flashes a nervous smile. 

'Ehm, so I'll just…' he says, hooking a thumb towards the sitting room as he wanders around the far side of the bed, eyes now on the floor. He is, Bradley realises, looking for his jeans.

Bradley dislikes this part. Hates being the one left behind in bed, feeling awkward and exposed, no longer relevant. It's why he rarely brings hook-ups back to wherever he's staying. But this isn't that. Even now Colin's sneaking little appreciative side-eye glimpses at him, a soft curve to his lips.

Even now, he tells himself, he is Colin's favourite fecking face, so… No more of this bullshit. No time for doubts. No need to play games.

'I'm due for a shave.' Bradley thumbs his own scruff as he peels back the duvet, sits up, then scoots off the edge of the bed. 'But help yourself to whatever's in the kitchenette. Or… Hang on.' 

He stalks past Colin out into the sitting room, to where his jacket's draped on the back of the desk chair. He returns with the spare keycard to his suite. Colin's fidgeting in the bedroom doorway now, jeans hanging from one hand, openly staring.

Bradley returns the favour, looking Colin down and up then slipping the keycard into the waistband of his pants. Nosing in for a long, thorough, claiming sort of kiss. One hand on the back of Colin's neck, the other cupping his bum, giving it a light smack before he pulls away.

'There's also the lobby café,' Bradley says, 'or a Tim Horton's round the corner if you want to go native, join Timbit Nation.'

Colin chuckles as he retrieves the plastic from his waistband. Shakes his head. He's dropped his jeans somewhere along the kiss; his other hand's still idling at Bradley's hip. 'This how you treat your shags, then, Mister "Feck off and bring me doughnuts"? Knew I should have listened to my ma.' 

His expression's grim but his eyes are merry, and Bradley's face can't help but respond. He clasps Colin by the shoulders, gives him a shake. 'Quiet, you,' he orders. 'She adores me, _prays_ for me, you said it yourself.'

'Aye, but – '

Bradley kisses him again, this one a quick mash of lips just to shut him up. In his normal voice, he says, 'And I don't want doughnuts, mate. Just trying to give you some space if you need it, and options, because I know you – '

'Aye.' This time it's Colin's turn to interrupt, fervently, eyes ablaze and hand firm on Bradley's chest. 'Aye, you do. Know me, that is, and I… Shit.' He drops his head and shakes it, mouth twisted in an odd sort of smile. Then he shoves at Bradley, says, 'Just gonna pop down to my room for some fresh clothes. You got tea?'

Bradley hooks Colin's jeans on his foot, flicks them up, catches them, and pushes them at Colin's chest, stepping aside as if to usher him into the sitting room. 'Am I or am I not an Englishman?'

Colin's eyes narrow. 'Hm, yes, very. But… I brought some of the good Irish stuff, I'll bring it up.'

There's a bit more back and forth on the subject as Colin traipses about the room, retrieving the rest of his clothes and tugging them on. Bradley's sure he's winning the argument when Colin glares at him after blundering an arm into a neck hole, then proceeds to misbutton his outermost shirt without noticing. It's fucking delightful.

Then Colin walks up to him, all pink cheeks and flared nostrils. 'Put some damn clothes on, will you?' he says, vexed, and Bradley throws back his head and laughs. 

'Oh, I'm sorry. Am I distracting you, Colin?'

'Yes.'

'Good.' Laughing as he catches hold of Colin's shirts and hauls him in for a kiss, laughing as Colin backs away, towards the door, and flips him the finger.

'By the time I get back, alright?' 

Bradley stretches his arms above his head. 'My room, my rules,' he says, turns, and – knowing by the lack of door-clunking sounds that Colin's still watching – saunters over to turn on the telly.

* * *

They don't do this. No 'about last night' heart to heart over their tea, toast and shared banana. No apologies, no talk of the capital-F Future.

No shift in the world's axis when Colin mumbles something about getting some reading done before lunch, but flops down beside Bradley on the sofa to do it – then winds up spending half the time peering at the match over the edge of his book, chatting about this and that, hardly raising an eyebrow when Bradley's feet land across his lap.

No worrying whether he's talking too much or too little. No holding back when they happen to disagree. No big deal. No big deal because it's Colin and they know how to do this, how to be two very different people in a room on a street in a city together, the little flares of irritation no match for the all-over shine of it. 

No hand holding, of course. No wine or flowers or shared sorbet spoons. No kissing in the skypod or the back of taxis. No introducing him round to the cast and crew later as anything other than Colin or – jokingly – 'my former PA.' 

And yet…

* * *

Warmth of a thigh, pressure of a shoulder jostling against his own. Warmth in Colin's eyes when their gazes catch and hold. Being 100% in on the secret.

Slipping the new dynamic on under the old, a bit like thermals, and finding that it's not as cumbersome as he'd feared. At the tower they're just two more tourists, enthusing over the views. The few people who approach after recognising them are polite, and after all the gauntlet-running they've done they've got the moves, the patter down.

Realising that half the stress back then was self-generated, Bradley unsure of his own feelings as well as Colin's, increasingly aware of being watched and judged for something other than the work, increasingly embarrassed by it, dreading what it meant for his future. Seeing the same burden wearing on Colin and feeling powerless to stop it except by distancing himself. Colin presumably doing the same. Worry and self-doubt trapped in a hall of mirrors; nowhere to hide.

Now Bradley's made peace with the fact that in this business his looks, his background, his connections are undeniable parts of his toolkit. And he's learning that, while they may often be what get him in the door, they don't have to define him. It's within his power to ensure that people see more.

Now he's got Colin's sleeping profile and coming-apart sex noises tucked at the forefront of his memories, along with a whole grab-bag of Colin's most genuine, infectious smiles. All for – well, _mostly_ for Bradley; he'll admit lunch feasting Avengers-style up in the bloody sky, helping those kids on the glass floor deck plot an alien invasion of Toronto, and getting to watch the SFX techs blow up a police cruiser may have a part in it as well.

'Brilliant,' Colin says when they wrap on the last of the night's scenes, sliding down the backside of four in the morning on cups of coffee and tea that Colin's been helping the runners fetch, because he's ridiculous like that. 'Seriously, mate, it's brilliant. Well done.'

And again in the hotel lift, after the pissed TFC fans exit on the twelfth floor and they are finally alone.

'Brilliant day, mate,' Colin says softly after the lift lady voice assures them that they are still 'going up.' He's leaning back against the wall by the button panel, hands in his pockets, lids drooping but the eyes beneath clear, steady. 'Thank you.'

'Any time,' Bradley says, smiling. He remains where he is, in the opposite corner from Colin, but holds his gaze, letting the heat creep in despite his exhaustion. 

The lift stops again. 'Twentieth floor,' the voice announces.

Colin blinks. 'This is me.'

'Is it?' Bradley lifts his eyebrows. Disappointing, but understandable. 'Well, goodnight then. Ring me when you’re up. We can grab a meal before I'm due back on set.' He steps forward, an arm lifted for a quick hug only to find himself being embraced full-on, walked back, crowded bodily up against the wall. 

Bradley goes with it. 'Or…' he says as the doors begin to slide shut and Colin's yet to say a word.

'Did you… ' Colin swallows, so close his eyes are flicking back and forth. 'Any time, did you really mean that?'

'Wouldn't have given you my room key if I didn't.'

Colin exhales – a shaky sigh – and buries his face in Bradley's neck. 'Then good morning,' he says, nudging a thigh between Bradley's and hugging him tighter. 

'Going up,' the lift says, as perky and pleasant as ever. Bradley feels Colin's involuntary shudder and – recalling the toaster nightmare and subsequent conversations about the dark places Colin's recent work has taken him to – hugs him back, saying, 'No worries, mate. I won’t let her hurt you.'

They're both snorting laughter by the time they arrive at Bradley's floor, shoving at one another without ever once letting go, urging one another to 'Run… _run_!'

* * *

They don't do this. Don't hold back on the raw intimacy of sleeping naked or lights-on fucking – of tongues in arseholes and blowjobs in the shower, trading handjobs and neck rubs and insults about smelly feet – just because it won't be possible the next day, and the next days after that. Don't do tears and long goodbyes. No regrets no demands no bullshit promises.

And yet…

* * *

'Hey, hold up, bring it back in here for a sec,' Bradley says, waving Colin into his suite when he stops by one last time after popping down to his own – largely unused – room to pack.

He quirks an eyebrow but drops his luggage in the entryway, allows the door to swing shut behind him. Bradley's on him the instant it's closed, kissing him with the sort of fierce possessiveness he knows he has no right to in this day and age – especially given their circumstances.

'So,' he says as he comes up for air, 'I have a break coming in a few weeks, and I was thinking – '

' _Yes_ ,' Colin cuts in, breathing heavily. His pupils are blown wide; he's idly thumbing Bradley's earlobes. 'Yes, I think you'd fecking better.'

Bradley smiles into their next kiss, certain of nothing but that in this moment he's perfectly happy – and that they're doing this again.

* end *

**Author's Note:**

> Title snagged from a Busta Rhymes lyric off Tribe Called Quest's "Scenario."
> 
> C's naughty Shakespeare quotes from Romeo & Juliet Act I scene v, fragments of Romeo's lines (the 1st is actually 'O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do...' )
> 
> I swear I'm not on the payroll of Tourism Toronto, but just in case you want to plan your own Brolin 'date', here's the facts ma'am: [CN Tower.](http://www.cntower.ca/intro.html)
> 
> And if this piece were to have an epilogue, it would be an _An Affair to Remember_ -style pact that they will meet back at the tower one day after independently achieving massive international critical and popular acclaim to do the EdgeWalk, come out as a couple... and still belly crawl out over the glass floor deck with random kids, pretending they're aliens flying over Toronto. ;-)


End file.
